Just Sherlock and John
by NCISthemedname
Summary: John discovered the man under the disguise: it's Sherlock! But with his rage also comes their confessions of love which lead to...well, they are now very happy and tired. M for explicit sex scene. JohnLock established


"This ridiculous costume needs to stop," John muttered. The man next to him looked at the shorter man, positively confused. John looked up into the man's vibrant green eyes. His short dark, straight hair and thin glasses gave him an extremely youthful look. His lanky body was clothed in a vintage style of clothing, wool brown and blues, making him look smaller than he really was. He wore a brown woolen jacket, ragged and looked to be picked out of the bin. Underneath, he wore a stretched hideously blue stripped jumper and a worn blue scarf. It wasn't tied but was wrapped haphazardly under his chin.

"I-I am sorry sir, but I don't know what you're talking about," he said. He turned to leave before John grabbed his arm and held him there. "Sir, please. I don't know you. Let me go before I call the Yard." John laughed harshly.

"The Yard is not going to help you and you know that." His eyes, hard and dark, pierced into the taller man's green eyes. In those eyes burned accusation, hurt, loneliness, and anger. The taller man wanted to walk away and never look back but something kept him tied to the spot. "Sherlock," John whispered. The taller man's eyes went wide. "Please, stop." John's eyes filled with tears. The taller man sighed and resigned. He took off the glasses and put them in his coat pocket. He looked back at John and gave him a small smile. John nodded and went down the street to their, still _their_, flat, hoping Sherlock was following. He was. Without a word, they went up the stairs, careful to avoid Mrs. Hudson.

Once inside, John dropped the groceries in the kitchenette and silently put them away. Sherlock stood in the living area, observing the changes. There were none. John had kept everything in exactly the same place they had been a year before. The papers. The skull. The cigarettes. Sherlock's shoes. Everything in their haphazard places. Sherlock picked up the skull and looked it over. There was no dust, no more signs of decay. Even though everything was where it had been before, it looked as if John had kept everything in spectacular condition. Everything was clean and dust free. Sherlock heard as John closed the cabinet for the last time, indicating he was done with the mundane chore of groceries. He turned around to greet the shorter man but instead was greeted with his fist. The pain radiated from his cheek. He could feel blood dripping down from a cut. He heard John swear under his breath. The doctor held his wrist but did not look at his open knuckles. The hit had injured him too but he was too angry, too hurt, with the detective to even notice his own pain. His external physical pain.

"John, I – "

"I don't know if I want to know, Sherlock," John growled. "You lead me, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, everyone, to believe you were dead and here you are, alive, standing in my flat. How? How did this happen? Why did you jump? Why are you still in London?" His flat. Sherlock felt a pang of hurt clutch at his heart. He may not have removed anything of his from the flat but he had removed Sherlock. His questions buried the detective.

"I had to," Sherlock said firmly. He was still emotionless. He was still a high functioning sociopath. This would not be hard. Except it would be. He wasn't the same anymore and he knew that. "Moriarty gave me no choice. I took every precaution so that I could defeat him. The game is over."

"The game?" John shouted. 'The _game? _Sod the game! Do you know what you did to us, to all of us, after you jumped?" He was uncontrollably irate, remembering the past thirteen months of pain. "Lestrade almost quit. Mrs. Hudson almost had a heart attack. I – I – " He couldn't finish his shout. He couldn't tell Sherlock his struggles. He couldn't let him know that this one man, his best friend, almost caused his own suicide three times. The gun in one hand. The phone in the other. He never figured out why he never went through with his self-inflicting threats. No one else knew about his bouts of suicidal rampage. He closed his eyes and sighed. "It doesn't matter what I did. Why are you still here? How?"

"Molly," Sherlock said simply. "She helped me escape my own death. She has helped me stay undercover this entire time. I took down Moriarty's crime syndicate from the inside."

"How long ago was that?" John asked murderously.

"Four months ago. I finished four months ago," Sherlock muttered.

"Four – four months ago?" John shouted again. "A-and all this time, you've been, what? Sipping tea and star gazing? Why didn't you come back sooner?" His eyes filled with tears. One single tear escaped. Sherlock wanted nothing than to stop the tears but he knew John's anger would not subdue until he explained everything. Sherlock took a moment to think through what he was going to say next.

"Molly and I wanted to but we agreed that if I suddenly appeared, you would fear you had gone mad. We decided that it would be best if we told Mycroft first. He would then eventually lead you to believe I was still alive then I would return. We – " Sherlock took in a deep breath. "_I _didn't want to damage your psyche that way. It was already so damaged from you believing I to be dead, I was afraid for you." As the words escaped his lips, Sherlock could not believe how true they were. He really had been afraid for John's mental wellbeing. He cared too much to damage him further. The amount of caring Sherlock held for John was overwhelming. There were times when he was undercover when he would think of John and he would want nothing more than to drop what he was doing and return to Baker Street. He wanted nothing more than to take John in his arms and hug him until neither could breathe. Those days scared him. He was afraid he would actually act upon those impulses but he never did. John laughed harshly again.

"Well, you failed." John's voice cut deep.

"How did you know?" Sherlock asked, his voice and face completely void of the emotions he was experiencing. His voice was cold and harsh. John crossed his arms and glared at Sherlock.

"I may not be the world's only brilliant consulting detective but I did learn some things. No, not the general observation crap you kept trying to feed me. I learned things about _you_ because I lived with you." John started explaining. "I didn't know it was you at first but I had my suspicions. You are very good at disguises, I'll give you that. You really shouldn't have gone to the deli every day, Sherlock. That's what tipped me off at first. You went everyday at the same time. Once I saw that, I saw how you reacted. I walked by you once as you ordered your coffee. Black. Two sugars. I know that is common but it clicked something. After that, I watched you. You never did anything but you always watched the flat. You never responded to the women who would greet you. You never moved. It was like those days on end where you would retreat to your Mind Palace. You didn't eat. You didn't sleep. You didn't move." John's expression warmed slightly at the memories before the fall. The warmth he felt when he finally started piecing together that it could have been Sherlock down there, watching his daily movements. "But then last week, I was looking that the papers outside the deli and I heard you speak. You may be able to disguise yourself and your voice but you cannot change how you speak French. It always amazed me how you could do so much but you failed to change your French. Posh. Proper. Victorian." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John. John smiled. "One thing you never learned nor _cared_ to learn about me was that I am fluent in French too. I understood you every time. That's what lead me to connect the dots. That's when I knew you were alive. So many clues put together. I know, it would have taken you all of two minutes to do that but I am not you. No one can be you, Sherlock." John whispered. They were silent for a few minutes before John broke the silence again. He laughed lowly before asking. "What are you wearing, by the way? You look like a poor uni student."

"That's what I was posing as, yes." Sherlock smiled. "I wanted to look younger. I've noticed that if you look to be uni, then you are much more able to linger in stores than if you are older. I never cared to learn why."

"Did you have an undercover name or something to go with your uni look?" John almost felt like they were back to normal but he knew they weren't. There would be too much to talk about for that to happen again. He gave the taller man a small smile to encourage him on.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered. He didn't want to say more but he knew John would make him.

"Well, come on. Tell me. What brilliance did Sherlock Holmes come up with to disguise himself? Some exotic name so it wouldn't be so – "

"John."

"Yes?"

"No, my name was John."

John blinked. Out of every name that existed, Sherlock used his. Well, it wasn't his. It was one he shared with millions of other blokes in the world. John let a small frown take place as he thought of that. Sherlock took it as disappointment.

"I'm sorry, John. I just – "

"You took my name. Why?" It came out slightly harsher than he had meant.

"I don't know how to say it. I'm not sure – " Sherlock cut himself off. He stood looking at his own feet. What happened to the cold, calculating, emotionless man he used to be?

"How to say what, Sherlock? Just say it," John commanded. His anger was becoming infectious. It certainly tainted Sherlock's clear mind. He balled his hands into fists. "Sherlock."

"Because I missed you," Sherlock blurted. John blinked again.

"I thought it would have been some stupid, logical reason like that it didn't attract attention or some nonsense," John admitted quietly. "But I missed you too, Sherlock." Sherlock shook his head. There was no way that John would understand.

"No, no, this didn't make sense though. I wanted to stop what I was doing and come back. I wanted to leave my mission and stay with you, here, on Baker Street. I didn't want cases. I didn't want puzzles. I didn't want to hide from anyone unless I was hiding with you. There were so many days where just using your name was painful. Then I would think about you and how you probably had some new woman on your arm, making you happy and then the pain would intensify. I didn't want anyone else here with you." Sherlock grabbed at his short hair. It didn't have the same effect as grabbing at his long curls but he had to deal. He closed his eyes tightly before the tears would leak. He couldn't be weak. Not in front of John. "I didn't care about secrecy. I just wanted to come back…to you." He let out a sigh and waited for the barrage of insults or the laughter that John would soon emit. Instead, he felt warm hands on his own, gently pulling his hand out of his hair. Sherlock opened his eyes to look into John's warm dark blue ones. He felt foolish but gave a small smile. John answered with a smile of his own.

"Sherlock, I'm pretty sure that most people would call those sensations, those yearnings…love." John smiled, another tear falling down his cheek. Sherlock looked at him confused. Love? Him? Not possible. But then why did he want to take John up inside of him, to hug him, to never let him go? He wanted to keep John safe and to hide him from the danger that his life would bring. But what confused him the most was the urge to kiss John. He wanted to know what John tasted and smelled like. Is that was love felt like?

"I-I'm not sure," Sherlock whispered. John chuckled.

"You're a self-diagnosed high functioning sociopath who only has a handful of friends. I would be surprised if you _did _know. But, I think, I may have a solution." John suddenly was very nervous. Sherlock noticed how he began to shake. That's when he noticed other things. John's usually dark blue eyes were almost black. His breathing was ragged, his heart rate elevated. His eyes flicked back and forth between Sherlock's eyes and his lips. The detective took in a breath. John chuckled. "I'm sure you're seeing the same things I am," he whispered.

"What is it you see, John?" Sherlock asked deeply. It sent shivers down John's being.

"Dilated pupils. Ragged breathing. Elevated heart rate. Shivering," he whispered. "I do believe that the great Sherlock Holmes is in love."

"Then it only makes sense that the army doctor John Watson is too," Sherlock mused.

"Of course I am. Why did you think I was so angry?"

Before Sherlock could respond, John brushed his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock gasped at the sensation, pulling back slightly. John opened his eyes, looking worried.

"I-I'm sorry," John whispered, pulling back. Sherlock broke out of John's hold, just realizing that his wrists were still in John's hands, and pulled the front of John's beige jumper closer to him. He crushed their lips together to John's surprise. He did not want that first sensation to end. John gasped then fell into motion with Sherlock. After a few minutes, John ran his hands around Sherlock's neck and into his straight short hair to pull him closer. Sherlock let go of John's jumper and, with an ample amount of apprehension, slowly dragged his long thin fingers down John's sides to his waist and back. John flinched slightly at the sensitive fingers.

John, out of habit with his girlfriends, raked his tongue across Sherlock's bottom lip. Sherlock didn't know what to do but opened his mouth anyway. John chuckled and delved his tongue deep into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's eyes flew open as he allowed John to explore. He wasn't sure but after a minute or two, Sherlock plunged his own tongue into John's mouth and reciprocated John's actions. John used a thumb to rub Sherlock's sharp cheekbones softly. Sherlock pulled back.

"Always wanted to do that," John whispered, chuckling. He brushed his lips softly against Sherlock's. "Tell me if you want to stop."

In response, Sherlock let go of John's back and slipped his fingers under John's shirt. Lightly, he dragged his thin bony fingers across John's stomach. For a man who had been out of the army for a few years and did not regularly exercise, he was still rather muscular. John gasped under Sherlock's touch, which sent a burning down to his groin.

"Always wanted to do that," Sherlock growled lowly. It was almost as if he knew what he was doing to John because now, his trousers were very uncomfortably tight. He moaned into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock chuckled. John pulled away slightly to place his lips on Sherlock's jaw. He kissed down along the line as Sherlock fingered his stomach and lower back. Then John did something he had never done before. He bit. Sherlock let out an extremely audible gasp as John bit and sucked up and down his neck. For a moment, Sherlock couldn't function. His brilliantly clever mind had been paralyzed by John and was replaced with white and stars. Once he could see again, he decided to retaliate. The hard plastic of John's belt lingered underneath his touch. He poked a finger under the band then retreated, deciding to trail his fingers across John's hip towards his groin. He could barely feel John's hardness until he was right on top. Without any clue what he was doing, he squeezed. John bit into Sherlock's jaw hard. Sherlock winced in response but made no sound. He took his hand away to John's displeasure only to replace it with his _own_ hardness. It had been there since they first started but had become uncomfortable with John's biting.

"Would you like me to help you with your problem?" Sherlock whispered in John's ear, having no idea what he meant.

"Oh God, yes," came John's feverishly customary response. Before Sherlock knew what was happening, John was tugging at Sherlock's ragged jacket and shirt. They parted long enough to pull them off before their lips crashed together again. Sherlock fumbled with the bottom of John's jumper before John pulled back to help. Once they finally got John's jumper and shirt off, both men were able to see the beauty that stood before them. Sherlock was just as thin as John had imagined, his sinewy muscles rippled as Sherlock shivered. His skin porcelain white looked to be carved out of marble, smooth with only light hairs splashed across his chest.

Sherlock had never been attracted to anyone physically but John was the only exception. His broad chest was covered in sandy blonde hair, much like his head, and he was surprisingly tan. His stomach and arms were still well muscled. John's entire being fascinated Sherlock.

"Oh God," he whispered. John blindly swept the items on the desk behind him. He then crushed his lips to Sherlock's before picking up the taller man and placing him on the desks. "Is this where you're going to take me?"

"No," John growled, "this is where I'm going to make you beg." Irene Adler's words came back to him_. __I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for__mercy__twice._ John growled with pleasure as he reveled in the fact that it would be _him _making the great detective beg, not her. It seemed to renew his vigor as he feverishly chased Sherlock's lips.

Molly Hooper sat impatiently across from the deli where she usually sat this time of day. Ever since Sherlock successfully destroyed Moriarty's web of crime, he visited the deli so as to keep an eye on John. And Molly felt obligated to help by keeping an eye on Sherlock. She knew how much pain he was in. She watched him as he sat on her couch every day and deteriorated before her eyes. Her struggles to make him eat or sleep only made her appreciate John so much more for being in his life. With that pain, she was afraid that Sherlock would do something stupid and mess up their plans. Clever or no, pain made people do idiotic things. Sherlock was no exception. But today was.

Everyday, Molly watched as Sherlock watched Baker Street and John. It was tedious but she felt like it would be worth it someday. Today was that day. She watched as John stopped to look at the paper, as Sherlock quietly and anonymously saddled up next to him, just to be close. She almost cried out when John stopped Sherlock, anger etched in his face. Relief and sadness swept over her as Sherlock followed John up to their flat. She knew that most people would leave by that point, convinced that they would be alright. But John and Sherlock were not normal. So she waited, counting down the time until John would be so angry that he would be forced to throw Sherlock out of the flat. She would wait and then greet Sherlock with condolences that it didn't go as planned but that John would warm up eventually. After almost two hours, she almost felt like she needed to go pop in, pretend to say hello, and make sure they hadn't killed each other yet. She had made it halfway across the street when she saw something that not only broke her heart but also made it fly. A bare back. Guessing from the snow white colour and the height of the man, she guessed it was Sherlock. He appeared with his back to the window very briefly before being pushed down, followed by a sandy head of hair. She took a moment to realize what had just happened. When the pieces finally fell together, she blushed a very deep red and, turning her back to the flat, walked back to her post. She sat down with her head between her hands and began thinking.

Then she realized that the crazy living situation with him was over. She hailed a cab quickly and made it back to her flat in less than ten minutes. She ran up the four flights of stairs, not tiring at all, and flew into her apartment. John had kept Sherlock's clothes, she guessed, so he wouldn't need the old vintage style he had been sporting. She decided to wait until later to throw them out. Now, she needed to get what he would always need. She ran to the couch where he had kipped for months. Next to it lay a small sketch book and a notebook. She was never allowed to touch the sketch book but this time, he wasn't there to object. As long as he was gone and busy, she decided to take a quick peek. The first page was a beautiful sketch of a man. His face was hard and fierce, concentrating on whatever it was he was doing. His hair was neatly combed over. She guessed from the light strokes that it was a blonde colour. The small bags under his eyes looked to be from age but she wasn't an artist or a consulting detective. She couldn't be sure. In the corner, in Sherlock's beautiful scrawled handwriting, it read _Captain John Hamish Watson._ Smiling, she flipped to the next page. It was the same man but completely different. His hair was disheveled. He looked tired but he was smiling. The smile even reached his dark eyes. _My John._ She quickly shut the book. She loved Sherlock more than she thought possible but in that moment, she realized that Sherlock loved John more than she could ever compete with.

Hurried, she shook her head and continued her search for his things. After a few minutes, she had gathered a few other note books as well as his phone. He hated carrying it now that he had no one to text or talk to with it. But those days were behind him now.

Hailing another cab, she crawled in and they sped off towards Baker Street. She looked up into the window as she jumped out of the cab. It was empty but she was sure that the flat was not. She hurried across the street to the door and knocked rapidly. Mrs. Hudson answered quicker than she imagined.

"Oh, hello, Molly dear. I'm afraid John's not here now, if you're looking for him," she said sweetly.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Hudson. I came to drop these off and was hoping you could take care of it sometime…tomorrow, probably, would be best," Molly said, a blush flooding her face. She tried not to imagine what was happening upstairs.

"For John?" the older woman asked, looking at the amount of notebooks.

"No," Molly shook her head, smiling. "For Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson gave her a sad smile.

"Dear, you really must let it go. Sherlock is dead, I hate to say." Molly laughed.

"I don't really think so, Mrs. Hudson." She turned to leave before she thought of something. "Mrs. Hudson, you may want to watch some loud telly or grab some headphones tonight." With a smirk, she left but not before they both jumped at the sound of a loud thud and a yell.

"Oh, God, John! _Please_!" Mrs. Hudson's eyes went wide. Molly scurried away before she was forced to explain what she knew. Internally, she laughed.

"You are seriously going to make me beg? You do know I have never begged a day in my life?" Sherlock asked, gasping, as John kissed him up and down his chest. John chuckled.

"You've begged me for things for almost two years. That line may have worked on Irene Adler but it won't work here. I know you." John made a dramatic lick at Sherlock's nipple while he let his fingers trail lightly over the denim covering Sherlock's groin. The taller man bit his lip, trying not to let any noise escape. It seemed all too easy to tease Sherlock but John was sure that he was thinking the same thing about the doctor.

"This is a new and unsettling sensation," Sherlock whispered as John pressed a litter harder.

"What is?"

"My groin." John sat up and looked at Sherlock, puzzled.

"You've never had an erection?"

"Not sense I was a teenager. My body is a transport, John, and that was from lack of self-control. The only thing that matters is my mind." John chuckled mischievously.

"Then let's see if we can't make it more pleasurable," John murmured as he dipped his tongue into Sherlock's navel, playing with the button on the detective's trousers. He pulled and tugged the jeans off, leaving on his pants for a minute. He trailed kisses back up to Sherlock's lips. Playing with his lips, John poked two fingers into the band of Sherlock's pants and tugged. He felt on his stomach as Sherlock's hardness bounced upwards, free at last. Even in his mindless bliss, John felt slightly freaked. He had never had sex with a man so the sensations of another man's member against him felt unnatural. Internally, he sighed and had to remind himself that this was no ordinary man. This was Sherlock. Gender did not matter anymore. Only them.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "This isn't –weird for you, is it?" He stopped John and looked into his eyes. John smiled at him.

"The only thing weird about this are those damned contacts you're wearing," John chuckled. Sherlock quickly pulled out the contacts and threw them aside. John sighed in awe as he looked into Sherlock's electrifying eyes. He had missed those so much. "So much better." He brushed his lips against Sherlock's again. He took a single finger and lightly drew it up Sherlock's member. Sherlock flinched and moaned. John traced a vein back down and let his hands wonder down Sherlock's thighs.

"John, please," Sherlock whispered.

"Is the great Sherlock Holmes begging already? This is easier than I imagined," John snickered.

"I never beg," he gasped.

"I'm pretty sure 'please' constitutes as begging, Sherlock," John teased.

"Shut up." Sherlock undid John's belt and trousers, letting them fall to the floor. He noticed he'd have an easier time that John did because he wasn't wearing any pants. "Someone was expecting to get lucky today."

"Someone was expecting to be _alone_." John lowered his head down to Sherlock's thighs. He trailed light kisses down them before making his way to Sherlock's cock. Excitement and worry mingled inside but something else, something more, over shadowed them. Bliss. His best friend was back. His best friend who loved him. And now he'd get to act on those sexually frustrating fantasies. He kissed the very tip of Sherlock, getting the already seeping liquid on his lips. His tongue slipped out and caressed Sherlock before he plunged and forced all of him inside of his mouth. It was a difficult feat. Sherlock was very proportional. Long yet thick. The doctor played with Sherlock as the detective writhed and moaned in pleasure. With a small pop, he slipped off of Sherlock. Sherlock kicked the desk in frustration.

"Oh God, John! _Please!"_ Sherlock shouted. On impulse, John grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and, kissing him feverishly, guided him towards Sherlock's room. It was much closer than John's.

Mrs. Hudson did not know what to expect when she went upstairs that afternoon. She had heard the crash and the yell but what could it be?

"John probably just dropped something again," she convinced herself, not realizing it had been a different voice entirely that she had heard. She knocked on the door of 221B but to no reply. She turned the knob. It opened up to a destroyed flat. Papers were scattered everywhere, clothes strewn on the floor, shoes thrown on the couch. She huffed before picking up a shirt and some papers. "John, I'm not your housekeeper. Why is this place such a mess?" She placed the papers on the desk then turned around to go find John. She passed the first room when she heard it. It was an unfamiliar noise for this flat and it was in _Sherlock's_ room. A loud crash made her jump again. She was just about to open the door and check when she heard someone moan.

"God, Sherlock. Dammit – quit – teasing – me!" A low chuckle emanated from another person. Sherlock? As much as she wanted to see if it was true, she also felt overwhelmingly embarrassed at what could have just happened. She dropped the clothes in her hands and ran downstairs as fast as she could.

"Mrs. Turner!"

John slammed the door behind them, not paying any attention to anything other than Sherlock's red swollen lips. They somehow made their way over to the queen sized bed on which John pushed Sherlock onto. The great detective looked up with surprise which quickly turned to mischievousness. He grabbed the doctor by the legs and pulled him down on top. Immediately, John started placing light kisses on Sherlock's long neck, kissing the bruises that had already started to form. He placed a long and loving kiss on the bite that broke Sherlock's skin. The long thin hands made their way down John's back to his ass and squeezed. John chuckled against Sherlock's skin. He placed a small kiss on the red swollen lips before asking what he had been meaning to ask all afternoon.

"Can I?" he whispered. Sherlock, kissing John's shoulder, only nodded. Before he did anything else, John brought their lips together for a single passionate kiss. He then kissed his way down to Sherlock's legs, avoiding the large and hard cock. John picked up the long legs and played with Sherlock's hole with his tongue. He licked and sucked and spit, remembering he had thrown out his lube after Sherlock's 'suicide.'

"John," Sherlock breathed, his hands trying to grasp the gray-blonde hair. John continued, smiling as he did so, until he felt like Sherlock was ready. He thrust a finger inside which made Sherlock yell. His usually baritone voice was raise an octave, almost to John's voice level. John smiled again as he thrust in another finger, changing angles until Sherlock almost pulled out his hair. He had found it. He pulled out of Sherlock and prepared himself.

"Ready?" he whispered. Sherlock merely moaned. Suddenly, John thrust himself inside. Sherlock yelled out again, clutching the sheets. John felt himself growing inside Sherlock's wet tight hole. He never felt better, not with any woman, not even with himself. He gasped out as he started pumping. Sherlock bit his bottom lip as John thrust faster and faster until they were both rocking the bed. The doctor tried to keep himself together as long as he could, soaking in the moaning, rocking, and vulnerable detective before him. All the times he had fantasized about this moment, all the times he had wanted, _craved_, for this had never amounted to the bliss he felt in this one moment. Sherlock arched his back, pushing against John, just as the soldier came inside of him. He pushed deep to keep it all inside. He was amazed as he realized that Sherlock did not come. Slowly, he pulled out of Sherlock, gasping for breath. "H-how did you not - ?"

"S-s-self con-control," Sherlock gasped.

"Wh-why?"

"I want – to be – in you," he said firmly. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled John down and flipped him onto the bed. Now, Sherlock held himself above John with his hands on either side of the shorter man's head. His eyes, John noticed, were full of an animalistic nature he had never seen before. Sherlock rubbed his hard cock against John's limp one, instantly getting a reaction. John groaned as he felt himself getting somewhat hard again. If this is what it was going to be like every time, he would have to reconsider making the detective beg. Sherlock chuckled deeply before giving John a passionate kiss. He placed his hand underneath the soldier doctor and gently flipped him over. Kissing the back of John's war wounded shoulder, he ran his cold fingers up and down his back, feeling the muscles tense and relax. He felt each vertebrae, following them with kisses. He lingered over John's ass, trying not to let his uncertainty be very known. He wanted to be inside John, to feel him, to be a part of him, but his inexperience lead him to be very cautious. Would he do something that John wouldn't like or would hurt him? Would John change his mind about the entire ordeal?

"What is it, Sherlock?" John said, looking over his shoulder. He saw the detective's uncertainty and smiled. "Hey, I have no idea what we're doing either. We'll figure it out." He placed his hand lightly on Sherlock's. Sherlock gave him a small smile before placing a light kiss on the small of his back. He pushed John back down as he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to do. Breathing in deeply and with some amount of nervousness, he spread John wide. He nuzzled the small of his back where he had just kissed before letting his tongue plunge into John. The other man moaned into his pillow, biting it, as Sherlock tried to get the hang of what he was doing. After a few minutes and a lot of saliva, he straddled John's legs tightly under his own. He touched John's hole, pushing in slightly, before pulling out. John moaned again with a hint of frustration. Sherlock chuckled darkly as he did it again. In frustration and lust, John threw a pillow, which knocked over the bedside lamp. "God, Sherlock. Dammit – quit – teasing – me!"

"Who's begging now?" Sherlock purred.

"Shut – up," John tried to growl. It came out more in broken breathes. Sherlock breathed out again then pushed all the way in. They both yelled out, John ripping into the sheets and Sherlock gripping John's sides with an impressive grip. Sherlock moved close to pulling out of John before pushing in slowly. The man underneath him grunted, his face contorting into something Sherlock couldn't comprehend. As he pulled back, he thought about pulling out. John must have sensed what he was thinking. "No! God, no. Faster," he commanded. Sherlock pushed back in and pulled again, faster. He got into a rhythm, quick, pulsating in and out. John started rocking with him, their motions fluid as one. It gave Sherlock a boost of confidence as he pulsed faster and faster. John was almost screaming. Sherlock couldn't hold it any longer. His self-control was lost in John's screams. He pushed one last time and released. He heard John moan and saw the hot liquid squirt onto the bed. Smiling, Sherlock pulled out and crawled back up to his partner. They both gasped as they stared into each other's eyes. John brushed his lips against Sherlock's and smiled.

Lestrade stopped his police car next to the flat. He needed John's assistance, something he had come to rely on as of late as the doctor's psyche became more stable. He left Donovan in the car as he hurried up to the flat. He pushed open the door and almost ran over Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, Detective Inspector. Looking for John?" she asked quietly, a blush residing on her cheeks.

"Yes, I am. Is he in?" he asked quickly.

"Yes but – " Lestrade ran the stairs, "You shouldn't go in there!"

"I need him!"

"But someone else needs him more!" Lestrade ignored her as he reached 221B. He pushed open the door to discover the flat in ruins.

"Good God, John," Lestrade said loudly. "What the bloody hell did you do?" He heard a noise in the hall next to the door but did not dare venture into the flat any more. He waited, staring at the mess, as a door opened up and someone walked out. Lestrade opened his mouth to give John the details of the case until he saw who it was. Standing before him, in nothing but a bed sheet wrapped tightly around him, was Sherlock Holmes. His cheeks were flushed, his short dark hair was extremely disheveled, but his face held no expression. He was normally stoic. Lestrade saw the bruises on his neck, the bite mark on his jaw. "I-I-I'm look-"

"Looking for John, yes, I heard," Sherlock said calmly. "You really needn't yell at Mrs. Hudson. Sound carries, you know." The corner of his mouth twitched slightly at a joke unknown to Lestrade.

"What the _bloody_ hell are you doing here?" Lestrade asked, flabbergasted. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I live here, Lestrade. Surely, you should know that."

"Li-live here? You're dead!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically.

"And you are still an idiot. I am obviously _not_ dead. Can't you see? I'm very _very_ much alive." This time, Sherlock broke out into a full grin.

"Well," Lestrade said, trying to figure out what he was doing here. "Where is John? I need him for a case." Sherlock's grin fell.

"John, on a case?"

"Yes," Lestrade said, gaining some of his brain function back. "He's my new forensics team." Sherlock grinned again.

"Well, Lestrade. I hate to inform you but John is…unavailable for the time being. So sorry," Sherlock mocked. Lestrade opened his mouth a second time before he heard it.

"Sherlock! Get back here!" Sherlock grinned mischievously and turned towards the door. Lestrade watched as a sparkle entered into Sherlock's eyes, followed by an inhumane hunger. He could feel himself blushing at the meaning. Sherlock turned his gaze back to the detective inspector.

"Must dash," he chuckled, closing the door in Lestrade's face.

John waited impatiently as Sherlock answered Lestrade's call. He didn't want to go help. He didn't want a case. He wanted to stay with Sherlock. Once he could feel the bed next to him start to go cold, he called out to Sherlock. He heard the door slam shut and another one slam open. Sherlock stood before him, wrapped in the silly bed sheet. He dropped it to the floor as he made his way back to John's side. He crawled over John to the other side, not wanting to take the two extra steps around the bed. He kissed John on his still pink lips as he did so. John smiled and looked deeply into Sherlock's pale eyes.

"What does this make us?" Sherlock asked.

"What do you mean?" John asked, confused that Sherlock wasn't aware of their status.

"Well, societal norms dictate that we now label our relationship. We were defined as boyfriends for so long that I do not believe it defines us now. Lovers we are but we are so much more. So what else is there?" John took a moment to take in Sherlock's words. He smiled.

"I have one."

"What is it?" John kissed Sherlock lightly.

"Just Sherlock and John." Sherlock smiled.

"I like that one."

**A/N: Thank you for reading! Please comment, criticize, whatever you want! I want to know what you think! This is my first slash so if something is wrong, please tell me! Also, I apologize for any and all Americanisms. :Z **


End file.
